The Masseur’s Forbidden Touch - Chapter 3: Chapter 3
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My cheeks burned with embarrassment when I spotted the same attendant waiting nearby. She must have noticed my discomfort because she quickly reassured me, "Historical records actually praise yang essence as excellent yin nourishment for women. All our male therapists are vasectomized—here's No.7's file showing zero sperm motility for years." She even showed me his annual medical reports.
Only then did my shoulders relax. The attendant helped me freshen up, straightened my clothes, and personally walked me out. Stepping onto the sidewalk, the whole afternoon felt surreal—like some erotic daydream. If not for the lingering warmth between my thighs, I might have convinced myself it never happened.
I arrived home in a daze to find Ethan back early from his trip. "Where were you?" he demanded, frowning. "I called six times." Guilt twisted my stomach—here I was, still humming from another man's touch, facing my clueless husband. "Just... spa day with Alina," I mumbled.
His face darkened at Alina's name. "That woman's nearly thirty and unmarried—disgraceful." I stormed past him toward the bedroom, but he followed. When his hands grabbed my waist, my pulse jumped—not from desire, but dread. After that afternoon's marathon session with the therapist, my body had nothing left to give.
Ethan's usual routine felt especially crude tonight—no foreplay, no rhythm, just mechanical thrusting. He didn't even kiss me. As he panted above me, all I could do was compare: the therapist's slow, worshipful hands versus Ethan's rushed groping. When his fingers brushed my freshly waxed skin, he murmured, "Since when is it pink down here?" before collapsing into his usual post-sex coma.
The next morning, Alina took one look at me and smirked. "Spill." Under the café's dim lights, I confessed everything—Ethan's unexpected advances, my disturbing realization. "His touch... it repulses me now," I whispered. Alina's eyes sparkled. "Finally! You're realizing what I've said for years—that man's aging you prematurely." Her words stung as I noticed how her carefree lifestyle kept her glowing while I looked... tired.
Returning home to another of Ethan's texts—"Project emergency. Out of town."—I felt only relief. But within days, restless heat coiled in my belly again. Before I knew it, I was back at that spa, begging for No.7's magic hands. And just like that first time, he ruined me for any other man—an addiction I had no intention of quitting.
Only then did my shoulders relax. The attendant helped me freshen up, straightened my clothes, and personally walked me out. Stepping onto the sidewalk, the whole afternoon felt surreal—like some erotic daydream. If not for the lingering warmth between my thighs, I might have convinced myself it never happened.
I arrived home in a daze to find Ethan back early from his trip. "Where were you?" he demanded, frowning. "I called six times." Guilt twisted my stomach—here I was, still humming from another man's touch, facing my clueless husband. "Just... spa day with Alina," I mumbled.
His face darkened at Alina's name. "That woman's nearly thirty and unmarried—disgraceful." I stormed past him toward the bedroom, but he followed. When his hands grabbed my waist, my pulse jumped—not from desire, but dread. After that afternoon's marathon session with the therapist, my body had nothing left to give.
Ethan's usual routine felt especially crude tonight—no foreplay, no rhythm, just mechanical thrusting. He didn't even kiss me. As he panted above me, all I could do was compare: the therapist's slow, worshipful hands versus Ethan's rushed groping. When his fingers brushed my freshly waxed skin, he murmured, "Since when is it pink down here?" before collapsing into his usual post-sex coma.
The next morning, Alina took one look at me and smirked. "Spill." Under the café's dim lights, I confessed everything—Ethan's unexpected advances, my disturbing realization. "His touch... it repulses me now," I whispered. Alina's eyes sparkled. "Finally! You're realizing what I've said for years—that man's aging you prematurely." Her words stung as I noticed how her carefree lifestyle kept her glowing while I looked... tired.
Returning home to another of Ethan's texts—"Project emergency. Out of town."—I felt only relief. But within days, restless heat coiled in my belly again. Before I knew it, I was back at that spa, begging for No.7's magic hands. And just like that first time, he ruined me for any other man—an addiction I had no intention of quitting.
End of The Masseur’s Forbidden Touch Chapter 3. Continue reading Chapter 4 or return to The Masseur’s Forbidden Touch book page.